


Hold On Tight

by KatScratches



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Blowjobs, Brief Mentions Of Vomit, Frottage, I suck at tags, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Premature Ejaculation, Roger can't you please behave, accidental angst, beginning relationship, freddie and brian are only mentioned, i'm so sorry for this entire fic, john you cheeky bastard, not graphic though because eww, rating changed to E specifically for 1 chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-03-01 15:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18803152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatScratches/pseuds/KatScratches
Summary: Very loosely based on the song "Misfire". John & Roger's afternoon doesn't quite go as planned.I suck at summaries. I'm so sorry.Set obviously at some point before the Sheer Heart Attack album, but not terribly specific timeline other than that.It was as if time had stopped for them both – though in reality it had only been about twenty minutes --  as if nothing else existed, or even could exist, except entwined limbs and soft, breathless moans and frantic, open-mouthed kisses. The breathy keening from Roger's lips as he thrust against John were noises made of sin itself.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> For the love of all that's holy, this is a work of FICTION. Please do not go showing this to anyone in Queen or affiliated with them. 
> 
> Many thanks to twitch, for giving this first chapter a good once-over to calm my nervous self.

Neither of them could remember later who'd made the first move. They'd been reclining on John's bed, lazily smoking cigarette after cigarette and sharing a half-bottle of vodka John had unearthed from a box of electrical bits and bobs. _It's cheap_ , he'd said with an apologetic shrug, _and probably shite_. It _was_ awful, tasting more like some kind of paint thinner than proper vodka, but it was all they could find in the flat. Neither of them cared. Each sip had only heightened the electricity that had been building between them for some time – building up for months, really -- until the vodka was all gone, the empty bottle dropping forgotten to the floor as their lips met.

They'd kissed before, of course, though not often and not for long. There'd been a few celebratory post-gig kisses, where Roger had been too exuberant for words, shoving John up against a wall, telling him how fabulously the bassist had played, before pressing his lips to John's. Another time, John had planted small, loving kisses along Roger's hairline while he tried to sleep off a hangover. And of course, they couldn't resist the deep kiss that Freddie had dared them to do two weeks before, when the power had gone out during a storm, thankfully putting an end to his idea of Strip Scrabble. _(“It's not a thing, Fred,” John had tried to explain. “It bloody should be!” Freddie had shot back. And, as if on cue, there was an enormous crack of thunder from the storm raging outside, and the flat had been plunged into sudden darkness. “Truth or Dare?” John had offered as Freddie grumbled something about them having no sense of adventure.)_

But this – _this_ was so much better. 

It was as if time had stopped for them both – though in reality it had only been about twenty minutes -- as if nothing else existed, or even _could_ exist, except entwined limbs and soft, breathless moans and frantic, open-mouthed kisses. The breathy keening from Roger's lips as he thrust against John were noises made of sin itself. John didn't think he'd ever been harder in his life, and every kiss, every moan, every thrust of their hips felt like electrical jolts going straight to his cock. _God_ , John thought, _if it was like this with their clothes still **on** –_

And then Roger froze, his hands tightening suddenly, painfully, on John's hips.

“Second thoughts?” John murmured into the other man's ear. He wasn't that surprised, if he was being honest. The tension between them had been building up for ages, yet this rough and fully clothed frottage was still the furthest they'd dare to go. “It's okay, y'know,” he said hesitantly, “if you want to, um, stop.” Not that _John_ wanted to stop; god, no, anything but that. From the first ardent kiss that Roger had given him after a particularly intense gig, all John had wanted was _more_. More kisses, more touches, simply more _Roger_. And even though John loved women, there was something about Roger that was intoxicating, addicting, and John had gone to his bed that night alone but painfully hard, Roger's name spilling desperately from his lips as he'd frantically brought himself off. 

Actually, John realised, _never_ stopping was really more what he wanted, what he'd hoped Roger would have wanted as well.

Roger shook his head, swiftly ducking his head down to bury his face into John's shoulder. “Nn-oo,” he stuttered. “I. Well. I just...” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

John's eyes widened as it hit him. Oh. _Oh_. Belatedly he realised that Roger was no longer hard and grinding against his thigh. He was sure that, if he looked, there would be a damp patch on the front of Roger's trousers – a damp patch for which he, John Richard Deacon, was probably responsible. He was suddenly grateful that Roger couldn't see the self-satisfied smirk that rose unbidden to his lips. 

“Um,” John began cautiously, feeling rather like he ought to say something. “It happens, sometimes. It just happens --”

“Not to me!” Roger burst out, rearing his head back up so John could see the frustration in those impossibly blue eyes. “I've never... I just... _That doesn't happen to me!_ ”

“Ok,” John grinned. “But clearly it _has_ happened at least once now.” He reached up and threaded long fingers into the blond's hair, pulling him down for a gentle kiss. 

“This,” Roger seethed against John's lips. “Is. Not. Funny. Not a bit!”

John valiantly tried to stop the giggles that threatened to bubble out of him. “Ok, no,” he agreed. “You're right. It's not funny.”

Except... it kind of _was_. While it wasn't particularly amusing that Roger had finished before they'd really gotten properly started ( _you did that_ , John's mind supplied smugly, _you made that happen_ ), the outrage and disbelief on Roger's face reminded John of nothing so much as an angry kitten.

A soft, fluffy, blond, outraged kitten.

He couldn't stop the giggles this time.

“Thanks a lot, Deacy,” Roger grumbled, struggling fruitlessly to extricate himself from John's grip. “Thanks for the support, mate. Really. Thanks.”

“I'm sorry!” John gasped, hands flying up to cover his mouth in a failed attempt to contain his laughter. “It's just--”

Roger finally managed to free himself from the tangle of their limbs, swinging his legs over the edge of the sagging double bed as he sat up, facing away from John, who was still giggling helplessly. He reached for the cigarette pack on the nightstand. 

Of course it was empty. Of fucking _course_.

Roger pushed himself off the bed, utterly fed up, and suddenly, irrationally furious over the whole sodding afternoon. “Going out,” he muttered. “You smoked the last fucking fag.” Which wasn't fair to say to John, he knew, because although earlier they'd both been smoking like proverbial chimneys, he also knew that in all likelihood he'd smoked the last one himself. He strode toward the bedroom door, but in a heartbeat John had leapt off the bed and across the room, blocking Roger's exit.

“ _John_ \--”

“Don't go,” John said. He cupped one hand along Roger's jaw, the tips of his long fingers tangling lightly into the other man's hair. “I'm sorry I laughed. I wasn't laughing at... well, you know.”

Roger huffed, refusing to be placated. He was sticky, and uncomfortable, and uncharacteristically self-conscious.

John reached out with his free arm, drawing the other man in close. Nose to nose they stood, grayish-green eyes staring lovingly into blue. It's funny, John thought, how everyone seemed to think Roger was so much smaller than he was, when the pair of them were nearly alike in height. Yet there was a delicacy, somehow, to Roger, that made him seem smaller than he actually was, whereas John's legs, especially given his penchant for platforms, made his legs seem to stretch on forever. (He'd never admit he wore the platforms because they changed his centre of gravity ever so slightly, giving a nice lift to his bum – a view he knew Roger certainly appreciated, especially from behind his drum kit.)

“I _am_ sorry,” John repeated, and meant it.

Roger broke their locked gaze first, dropping his eyes to John's shirt, rumpled and untucked, but still mostly buttoned up. There was a button missing, Roger realised. _Probably broke off while we were rutting around on the bed_ , he thought. Absently he allowed John to pull him in closer. God, John smelled good. John almost always smelled good, he thought, and now was no exception -- mostly soap, and a little sweaty from earlier, but just... just _John_. Without realising it, Roger's arms had crept up around John's back, holding him tight. The awful feeling of humiliation was beginning to ebb away as he allowed John to cradle him close, and Roger knew that no one need ever know about this ... incident ... except him and John, and John would be far too polite to ever mention it again.

It was one of the things Roger loved best about the bassist, that they could spend an afternoon like this, and John would never kiss and tell. And while he was almost certain that neither Brian nor Freddie would care about this fledgling ... thing, whatever it was ... between him and John, Roger wasn't exactly eager to tell them either. Honestly, he thought with an inward chuckle, Brian would likely just lecture them about safe sex and getting enough sleep, and Freddie would just want all the sordid details. _Perhaps not quite **all** the details_, his still-embarrassed mind hastily amended.

“I'll make it up to you,” John whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Roger's temple. “You just see if I don't.”

_It could be worse_ , Roger thought lazily, as John kept pressing small kisses into his hair. _Fred would have probably written a song about my little... misfire. John never would._

Roger smiled finally, pulling John even tighter to him. “I'll hold you to that,” he whispered back, tilting his chin up slightly to kiss John properly. “I will.”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger is Not Pleased. John is tongue-tied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to continue this. But, um, this happened. 
> 
> It's really dialogue-heavy, this bit, and un-betaed. I'm so sorry. I don't normally post anything without someone giving it a once-over, so if it's crap, that's on me.

After the third time that Roger had flung his drumsticks away in frustration, once again narrowly missing John (who seemed to have gained a sixth sense about hard, pointy objects being thrown at him and had chosen just that moment to step aside), Freddie had had enough. 

“Just a tea break,” he soothed to a chorus of indignant protests. “It's needed, lovelies. Caffeine and sustenance, and all that. I've no desire to be skewered by a drumstick.”

“Me either,” Brian muttered darkly, glancing askance at Roger's mutinous glares as he carefully placed the Red Special on her stand. 

“We've only got this place til six!” John complained, “And -- “

“And Roger keeps trying to murder you, apparently,” Freddie interrupted, his voice full of exasperation. “Lucky for you he's got such terrible aim. So take a few minutes and get whatever's got your knickers in a twist bloody sorted out!”

“Ten minutes, Freddie?” Brian asked, halfway to the door already.

“Twenty,” Freddie demurred, looping his arm into Brian's and dragging them both out the studio door without so much as a backward glance.

As the door banged shut behind the two older men, John could feel a heated blush rise to his cheeks. He knew what Roger's issue was. He plucked idly and tunelessly at his bass, unwilling to broach the subject, but with every passing moment the very air weighed heavier and heavier between them. Finally John could take no more of the silence. 

“Roger, listen,” he began.

“ _How could you?_ ” Roger yelled out of nowhere, making John jump. Now that Brian and Freddie were well out of earshot, he had no compunction about holding forth. “I trusted you!”

“Roger,” John tried again.

“I can't believe you put it in a song – a song that you actually want on the album! Everyone will know!”

“Rog --”

“Why not paint it on a billboard? Or skywrite it – Roger Meddows Taylor shot his load like a 16-year-old virgin!”

“Seriously?”

“Or pamphlets!” Roger continued angrily, raking his hands through his already messy blond locks. “You could hand them out door-to-door. Or take an ad out in the papers!”

“ _SHUT IT!_ ” John roared, and Roger did indeed shut his mouth with an audible snap. They stared at each other for a long moment, neither quite believing that a) John had raised his voice like that, or that b) John had raised his voice like that to _Roger_.

“Roger,” John began again, laying a shushing finger across Roger's lips as he opened his mouth to protest. “Did you even listen to the lyrics?”

“Of course,” Roger seethed from behind John's finger. “I --”

“And,” John continued, “did I mention you?

Roger shook his head. “Not exactly, but --”

“Did I say your name _anywhere_ in that song, or otherwise imply anything, anywhere, that could be construed as meaning _specifically_ you?”

“No,” Roger admitted in a very small voice as John finally stopped shushing him.

“Then why are you upset?”

“Because... it was embarrassing, what happened,” Roger said quietly, his cheeks flaming. “And you wrote a song about it. And even if you didn't specifically say me, _I_ know it's about me. And so do you.”

John waited while Roger took a deep, steadying breath. 

“... And it hurt,” Roger added after a moment. “I thought you thought better of me than this.” 

John swallowed heavily as he moved forward to take the other man in his arms. “It's not actually about you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Roger's temple. 

“It's not?” Roger asked hopefully.

“Well,” John amended. “It is --”

Roger's eyes narrowed.

“But not about that, exactly. Not _entirely_ , anyway.”

Roger glared skeptically at him, as John let out a small sigh.

“Okay,” John began. “You remember the very first time you kissed me? The very first?”

Roger nodded, a smile softening his expression. “We'd just played that weird Scottish pub with all the taxidermy,” he said softly. “It had such a strange atmosphere, and we were all so apprehensive. Poor Bri was just about in tears over it.”

“We almost cancelled for Bri's sake,” John said, and Roger nodded at the memory. Brian had been horrified not only by the taxidermy itself, but that there hadn't seemed to be a square inch of the pub that wasn't home to something stuffed in a frozen snarl. “You remember what he said?”

Roger laughed. “He said he'd soldier on. He looked awful though. I thought he was going to be sick over it all.”

“Well, he did 'soldier on', didn't he?” John said. “And we all tried our best to make it bearable for him.”

“You were amazing that night,” Roger grinned. “I mean, you always are, but you played just so brilliantly, and...”

“Mmm?”

“You looked so _good_. So, so good.” Roger's voice dropped to a whisper, as he unconsciously pressed himself up against John. “Those tight, tight trousers... I thought you'd maybe painted them on.”

“And after the show?” John pressed. “You remember?”

Roger glanced quickly up at John, his blue eyes dark with desire. “I kissed you,” he whispered breathlessly.

“Yeah,” John said fondly. “And I couldn't half believe it. I'd been wanting to kiss you for ages, but I didn't know if you would ever – but you did.”

“Mmm,” Roger agreed. “I did. Wasn't even thinking about it. It just seemed...”

“It seemed right,” John finished. “It _was_ right.”

They stood like that a few minutes longer, pressed chest to chest, unconsciously mirroring each other's breaths. It had been a sudden kiss, that first one, both sweet yet passionate, full of promise and longing, and only broken off by the unspoken need to get Brian the hell out of that place.

“So,” Roger said eventually. “How is your song not about... um. That.”

John sighed into Roger's hair, inhaling the comforting mingled scents of shampoo, cigarettes, and mildly sweaty drummer. “It's...” he began. “Well. It's about. Um.” He sighed again, nuzzling deeper into Roger's hair. “ _It'skindofbecauseIfellinlovewithyousobloodyfast,_ ” he mumbled.

Roger pulled back so he could look into John's eyes. The lovely grayish green he so adored was clouded with worry and uncertainty. “What?” Roger asked. “What did you say?”

“Never mind,” John said hastily, extricating himself from the tangle of their arms. “Forget I said anything.”

“But --”

“No,” John said, backing away. “Please. Just forget it.”

“But --” _I didn't hear you_ Roger wanted to say, but before he could, John was already halfway out the studio door, fumbling for his cigarettes as he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter, I know, but it seemed like a good place to break. I do actually have the next bit written but it needs fleshing out. 
> 
> Fun fact: in my handwritten notes, immediately after John walks out, I've written "John WTF who said you could leave the room"
> 
> If anyone is interested in beta-reading any of the remaining 3 chapters -- they are currently about half-written -- would you please DM me on my Instagram? @i.am.just.kat


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John. Now there was a thought._
> 
> _Drink up, drink up -- there was a **better** thought._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to 1f_this_be_madness for graciously giving this a once-over for me. <3

John hadn't come back to the studio after storming out, mumbling excuses to a bewildered Brian and Freddie as he'd pushed past them to the street exit. They'd hesitantly come back inside the studio, not daring to ask what had happened. They didn't need to; Roger's hurt expression was eloquent enough. The three of them had tried to pick up where they'd left off, but no one's heart was in it anymore. There was too much unspoken tension weighing in the air in the little studio.

Roger felt as if the walls were closing in on him, and begged off, claiming a headache that he knew neither Brian nor Freddie quite believed. 

A knowing glance had passed between the guitarist and singer, causing a bubble of embarrassment to well up inside Roger. “Look, I just... I have to go,” he muttered, afraid he was going to burst into tears at any moment, because god knows he hadn't had enough humiliation for one day.

“Of course,” Freddie said. “Bri and I can just... Well. You go on.”

“Yeah, no,” Brian agreed, waving Roger off. “We're good. Off you pop.”

Roger didn't need to be told twice. He all but fled down the corridor, through the exit, out into the blessedly cool early evening air. Along the street, round the corner twice, down a narrow alley, round and round one corner and another until Roger was quite thoroughly lost. But alone, gratefully alone. No Brian, no Freddie, no damn Deacy – Roger felt an deep-seated pang of regret at that. 

 

Because Deacy could not, could _not_ , have said what Roger had thought he'd heard. What Roger had wanted to hear, though he hadn't known until just then how badly he'd wanted to hear it. He wouldn't have. Deacy was just in it for a bit of fun... wasn't he? Weren't they both?

Roger didn't even know anymore.

He pushed open the door of the first bar he came to, letting himself be embraced by the redolence of stale smoke and spilled beer. Pulling out his cigarettes, he lit one with practiced ease as he slapped a tenner on the bar to begin the familiar slide into feeling no pain.

*** * ***

At least half a dozen double vodka tonics later – he's not sure how many; there may have been a few pints of questionable lager in there as well, but Roger honestly couldn't remember – he was feeling quite thoroughly squiffed. The music and the liquor thrummed seductively through him as he leaned up against the bar, idly tapping his foot to the live music. He had no idea who the band was, but they weren't too terrible. Not too great either, he grinned to himself. Certainly not Queen, but who was? Roger took a final drag on his cigarette, stubbing the charred remnant into the overflowing ashtray by his elbow as he signalled to the harried bartender for another drink. He swirled the remaining vodka around the melting ice before downing it in a pleasantly throat-burning gulp. Why was he even drinking vodka? He'd ordered it out of habit, too used to ordering it for John.

John. Now there was a thought.

Drink up, drink up – there was a _better_ thought.

“What's your name, sweetheart?” The voice purring suddenly into his ear startled Roger out of his reverie. He turned his head slightly, only to be caught up in a pair of thickly-lashed eyes the colour of the sea after a storm. Soft waves of dark auburn hair framed a vaguely heart-shaped face. Her mouth was generous, without being overly so – absolutely made for kissing, Roger noted with appreciation – but it was those eyes that really captured his attention.

“Um,” he began. He's not sure where she had even come from. For the most part, people have left him alone tonight, and he'd liked that for once, being allowed to be alone with his thoughts, poisonous as his mood had been. But now, with the vodka and the lager and the nicotine singing through his veins, he found himself quite appreciative of this lovely vision who'd come to lean up against him, nursing a drink of her own. 

His brow furrowed. She'd asked him something, surely. What was the question again?

Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Did you forget?”

“Forget?”

“Your _name_ , sweetheart,” she said, with a quiet laugh. “Did you forget your name?”

Funnily enough, he rather had, so he says the first thing that came to his alcohol-addled mind. “John,” he said, before he could stop himself.

“ _John_ ,” she purred, letting the word roll off her tongue, almost like she's tasting it. Roger is absolutely entranced. “If you say so. I'm Maggie.”

She looked like a Maggie, Roger supposes, whatever a Maggie should look like. He raked his eyes over her lithe form, admiring the cool ease with which she wears her simple shift dress, its short skirt barely skimming the tops of her thighs. He noted approvingly the way her full breasts pushed against the deep vee neckline.

“Maggie,” Roger repeated. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. He wasn't sure if that was due to the alcohol or the way his thoughts were jumbling up inside his head, desire for this lovely creature pressed up to his side mixed with a longing for the familiarity of the lean planes of a certain bare-chested bassist. 

She took a sip of her drink, her pink tongue darting out to lick at a drop on her lips. It was mesmerising, and before he could think twice, Roger leaned in, pressing his lips to hers. He could feel her smiling against him, and licked into her mouth. She tasted sweet, like the rye and ginger she'd been drinking, absolutely delicious. He slid one hand down to rest on her hip.

_John_ , he thought hazily. _God, John._

Maggie pulled back, a momentary flash of hurt crossing her face. “Who's John, sweetheart?” she asked, not unkindly. “We both know it's not _you_.”

He hadn't meant to say that aloud. _God_.

“I'm so sorry,” Roger gasped. His head was reeling, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to escape this suddenly claustrophobic bar. “It's not you, it's not you. You're lovely.”

“I know it's not me,” Maggie smirked, disengaging Roger's hand from where it rested on her hip. “Do I look like a John to you? But maybe you'd better go find what you really want, hmm?” With that, she took her glass and fluidly disappeared into the throng on the dance floor.

“I'm sorry,” Roger said again, this time to thin air. Except the air didn't feel thin anymore, but heavy, cloying, and all at once he felt horribly nauseous. He picked up his nearly empty glass and abruptly put it down again, pushing himself away from the bar and threading his unsteady way to the toilets at the back. Blessedly they were empty of patrons, which he barely had time to register before dropping to his knees in front of the porcelain, where he was sick once, twice, and again, oh god, and _again_ \--

Several minutes passed before he could sit back on his heels, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. His head had cleared a bit, though not by much.

_John_ , he thought miserably. _John, I'm so fucking stupid._

It took two failed attempts before Roger was able to haul himself more or less upright, head still spinning dangerously. Two words reverberated inside his skull in time with his heartbeat: _home, John. Home, John._

Outside in the cool night air, his head cleared a little more. He flagged down a cab, but the driver eyed him warily. 

“You think you're gonna puke, you tell me to pull over,” the cabbie warned. “Puke in my cab and I don't care where we are, I'll toss you the fuck out.”

Roger nodded in quiet assent, folding himself into the back seat. He didn't actually have a destination in mind. He certainly didn't want to go home and face John, because then he'd have to admit that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't only in this for a bit of fun.

“So?” the cabbie prodded after a long moment.

Roger glanced up, meeting the cabbie's eyes in the rear view mirror. He's got kind eyes, Roger decided, warm and kind. “What?” he finally croaked. God, his throat feels raw and abused, his mouth sticky and sour.

The cabbie huffed in mild aggravation. “You going somewhere? Or are we just gonna sit here all night?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roger said, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. _Oh_. Mistake, that. He closed his eyes for a moment to let the dizziness subside.

“Home?” the cabbie prodded again. “Probably best in your state.”

“Not yet,” Roger said slowly, giving the cabbie the name of a bar not too far from the flat, a place that the band often frequents. The driver nodded in acquiescence, pulling smoothly away from the curb.

Roger leaned back into the seat, resting his head against the cool glass of the window. John is the only clear thought in his head. So much Roger wants to say to him. So much he _needs_ to say. His heart and mind feel overfull.

_I'm a terrible friend_ , Roger thought miserably, staring out the window at the light rain that's started to fall.

At last the cab pulled up in front of a nondescript brick building. “You gonna be ok, mate?” the cabbie asked. “This place don't look like much.”

“That's why I like it,” Roger said, roughly fumbling through his wallet to pay the fare. “I'm good, yeah.”

The cabbie rolled his eyes. “Sure, whatever you say.”

*** * ***

Roger stands on the sidewalk, swaying ever so slightly. The rain is starting to become heavier, but he still hesitates at the door of the bar. The flat is only around the corner, ten minutes' walk at best.  
Finally he squares his shoulders, pulls open the door, and strides into the familiar bar with a beautifully feigned confidence. 

So much he wanted to say to John.

But not quite yet.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Brian, go to bed. I'll pour this one into his bed in a minute.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _Brian withdrew, giving them both a last backward glance. “Kind of cute when he's sleepy, isn't he?” he said with a tired grin._
> 
> _“Yeah,” John agreed fondly. “Too bad he's such an utter shit most of the time he's awake."_

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thumpthumpthumpthump._

“Fucking hell,” John grumbled, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, fumbling towards the door of the flat where someone was pounding incessantly. Unceremoniously he undid the chain and yanked the door open – how no one else had heard the ruckus was beyond him – stopping short at the sight of Roger leaning heavily, drunkenly, on the doorframe, a wide grin plastered across his face.

Plastered, John realised, being the operative word.

“Gonna lemme in?” Roger slurred, grinning like the damn Cheshire cat. He stumbled past John into the hall, tripping over a pair of someone's discarded trainers. Somehow he managed to narrowly avoid crashing into the opposite wall. John surveyed him with a mix of worry and distaste. Roger smelled abominable, and his shirt was stained where he'd apparently been sick. 

“Come on in, then,” John said, rolling his eyes as he shoved the door closed and redid the chain. “You live here, don't you? Don't need to ask permission. Where's your key?”

“Dunno. Somewhere,” Roger mumbled, making a half-hearted attempt to feel in his pockets. “Um. Somewhere... somewhere else.”

John could only roll his eyes again as Roger stumbled past him down the hall to the room the two shared. John sighed, making his way first into the kitchen to fill a glass with water before following him. Roger was certainly going to need it. As he headed to the bedroom himself, John was filled with conflicting emotions – a strange fury at Roger's current abysmally drunken state (strange because how often had their roles been reversed?) and a gnawing worry that this sodden, disheveled man was going to start harping on again about that afternoon's heated discussion.

Or worse, that he'd heard what John had said – what he'd confessed, really -- and clearly wasn't happy about it.

Wordlessly he handed Roger the water glass, and knelt to help him off with his shoes.

“Deacy,” Roger mumbled.

“Mm?”

“You're... too good t'me. Y're... Where are you?”

“Right here,” John answered, glancing up. He wrestled Roger's other shoe off and tossed it aside, then pulled himself up to sit next to Roger on the edge of the bed.

Roger leaned heavily into John's side. “Deacy,” he murmured again.

John wrinkled his nose as Roger nuzzled into his shoulder. “Rog, you fucking _reek_.” 

“I know,” Roger said with a yawn. “'M sorry.”

“Come on,” John said, giving the drummer a gentle nudge. He stood up, hauling Roger upright as well. “Do you think you can stand up in a shower?”

Roger just yawned again, his eyes at half-mast.

“Right,” John muttered. “That's a no, then. Come brush your teeth at least, ok? And then drink some of this water.” He took the glass away from Roger -- he hadn't drunk any of it yet, John noticed, but had just been holding it at a very precarious angle -- and set it on the nightstand. 

Roger allowed himself to be led back down the hall towards the bathroom, placidly raising his arms as John matter-of-factly stripped Roger of his smelly shirt, tossing it back over his shoulder into the hall. 

“You're really in a right state, aren't you?” John murmured, wetting a flannel with warm water and trying vainly to clean Roger up a little. It was much easier said than done, as Roger stood limply, beginning to fall asleep on his feet. "Not even sure that shirt's salvageable."

“How is he?”

John startled at the sound of Brian's soft voice, turning to see their lanky guitarist slouched in the doorway. “Oh, well,” John shrugged. “He's been worse, I'm sure.”

Brian nodded. “Sorry, y'know. About not getting the door. I thought it was the upstairs neighbours at first. You know how they get on the weekends.”

John knew, alright. While their upstairs neighbours weren't generally too awful, there'd been at least two recent occasions where Freddie had stormed up to their flat, loudly complaining about the disruption to his beauty sleep. (It hadn't helped much, though; on both occasions, Freddie had staggered back hours later, smelling like a distillery.)

“And Fred,” Brian continued, “he's at Mary's again, but you knew that...” He let his voice trail off.

“It's okay,” John said. “Really.”

Brian dropped his gaze, scuffing one toe at the floor. “It's only you he'd have wanted anyway,” he muttered. “At the door. You're the only one patient enough with him.”

“ _Bri_.” John had difficulty keeping the thread of exasperation out of his voice. “It's _fine_. Look, can you just --” He nodded toward Roger, who was three-quarters asleep and dangerously close to slipping out of John's grasp.

“Oh, sure,” Brian said hastily, putting a supporting arm around Roger. Together they managed to hold him upright while John attempted to help Roger clean his teeth.

“'M tired,” Roger complained, after spitting most of the toothpaste back into the sink. He wasn't entirely successful; some of the spit ended up near his navel, but John gave him a quick swipe with the cooled flannel. 

“Yeah, you would be,” John said. “Must be exhausting, staying out all hours and worrying us sick.”

“'M sorry,” Roger said in a very small voice, then yawned hugely.

John couldn't help ruffling the tousled blond hair. “Brian, go to bed. I'll pour this one into his bed in a minute.”

Brian withdrew, giving them both a last backward glance. “Kind of cute when he's sleepy, isn't he?” he said with a tired grin.

“Yeah,” John agreed fondly. “Too bad he's such an utter shit most of the time he's awake. Hey, Bri?” 

“Mm?”

“Thanks.”

Brian nodded, and padded back down the hall to his own room.

“Come on, sleepyhead,” John said. “I know you can still fucking walk.”

Roger threw both arms around John's neck, and let himself sag against the other man. “Carry me.”

“No fucking way,” John hissed, untangling Roger's arms from around his neck and steering him toward the bathroom door. “Are you _completely_ daft?”

Roger huffed out a soft laugh as John half-walked, half-dragged him back to their bedroom and sat him on the edge of his bed.

“There,” John said, handing him the glass of water that had he'd poured earlier. “Bottoms up.”

Roger just gazed up at John over the rim of the glass, eyes brighter but still hazed with alcohol. “I like _your_ bottom,” he said cheekily, and drank.

John just rolled his eyes for what seemed the hundredth time that night. “Get in bed, Rog.”

“Thought you'd nev-- never ask,” Roger hiccoughed. He reached a tentative hand out to pluck at John's sleeve. “Stay? Please?

“I'm not far, y'know,” John said, pointing across the room to his own bed which was barely half a dozen steps away. “I'm just there, ok? Just over there.”

Roger shook his head. “Not the same.”

“Rog.”

“ _Please_.”

John sighed. It was a losing battle and he knew it. “Budge over, then,” he said, and Roger slid over obligingly, snuggling into John's side as they settled themselves in the narrow bed. 

“Deacy?”

“Mm?”

But Roger only mumbled something unintelligible, as he burrowed further into John's chest.

John tightened his grip around the blond's shoulders, pressing a kiss into the matted hair. _He's going to have the devil's own time brushing that out tomorrow_ , John thought. He found himself taking a long shuddering breath to hold back the tears that suddenly threatened at the corners of his eyes.

 _I'm sorry_ , John wanted to say. _I'm sorry for the song, sorry for teasing you with it. Mostly I'm sorry for loving you. Please don't hate me. I'm so sorry. Please don't be angry with me anymore. I couldn't stand it if you were._

A lump rose in his throat but he forced the words past it anyway. “I'm sorry,” John whispered thickly, but Roger was already fast asleep, still mostly dressed.

 _At least_ , John thought ruefully, closing his eyes, _he finally drank the damn water._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most sincere thanks to those of you have read, left kudos, and/or commented. It really does mean the world to me. I don't actually know what's going on with this fic -- it seems to have taken on a life of its own. The funny part is I do actually have the ending written, but I seem to be taking the absolute most roundabout way of _getting_ to it!
> 
> Many thanks again to 1f_this_be_madness for the once-over. This was much less of an assault to check over, I'm sure. ;)
> 
> Also, may I please apologise for there being very little Brian, and nearly no Freddie? I'm just not sure I can write either of them to anyone's satisfaction, especially mine.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is literally the only part that made me have to switch this to an E rating. I'm sorry it took so long in coming (lol) but every time I sketch out a chapter outline, one of the boys turns it upside-down.

John awoke some hours later to the slick warmth of an enthusiastic mouth sucking on his dick. 

Admittedly, this was a fantastic way to wake up, but as he gradually became more awake, he realised several things at once. One, that it was still more or less night, for only slivers of moonlight peeked through the blinds, which meant they couldn't have been sleeping for very long. Two, that he was in Roger's bed, but Roger was no longer curled up to him. And three, that meant that the mouth could only belong to --

“ _Rog!_ ” John stage-whispered. Oh, god, that felt good. So, so good. Even if Roger was still half-drunk, which he probably was.“What the fuck are you--”

Roger stopped the breathy, open-mouthed kisses he'd now begun bestowing all along John's length. “Shush,” he mumbled, glancing up briefly from where he was cosily nestled between John's thighs. He tucked an errant strand of hair behind one ear. “I'm busy.”

“Yeah, I can – _oh!_ \-- I can feel you're busy.” John hissed at him, one hand reaching down to give the blond's hair a tug. “You need to – _mmph!_ \-- fucking sleep! You're going to be miserable – _oh, god!_ \-- in the morning!”

Roger raised his head slightly, peering up again at John. His eyes glistened darkly in the moonlight as he licked his lips. “I _was_ sleeping,” he said peevishly, mouth still against John's cock, which was clearly very happy with all the attention. “Now I'm not.” 

“ _Rog_ \--” John whined. 

Roger raised an eyebrow. “You want me to stop, do you?”

“No,” John groaned, actually a little lightheaded from arousal. They'd never gone this far before, but he certainly didn't want to stop. “God, no.”

“Then shut up, shut _up_ ,” Roger muttered as he planted kisses all down John's aching cock, nuzzling into the soft curls at the base. “Stop fucking interrupting me. You're like a drug, a fucking _drug_ , god.”

There was still a vague slur to Roger's voice. John's cock didn't really seem to care, especially when Roger was treating it like a favourite ice cream. John tried valiantly to not arch his hips up towards that eager, teasing mouth, but it was impossible. He was ridiculously hard, and all he could think of was the warmth of that mouth. And, he realised, gasping as Roger's tongue laved all around the head of John's cock, Roger must have been at this for some time, because John was already so, so close.

_Oh god, oh god_ , John thought, lost in sensation. _I'm fucking dreaming. Must be._ A low moan escaped his lips as Roger hummed around him, lavishing his leaking cock with broad licks all along the length, swirling up and around the head.

“Deacy, you taste so gooood...” Roger murmured. “Just relax. Relax and let me take care of you, ok? Can you let me do that? Let me take care of you?” And with that he bent his head and sucked John into his mouth as deep as he could, one hand cupped around John's balls.

“Rog – _fuck!_ \-- we --” John couldn't form a sentence, and gave up trying. _But I want you to remember this,_ he thought hazily, before giving in completely to the rhythm Roger had built up. One hand clenched a fistful of bedsheet, while the other was still clutching a handful of Roger's hair as his head bobbed up and down.

“Jesus – _Rog_ \--” John panted, bucking up into Roger's mouth as the drummer sped up. “I'm not gonna last if you – _uhh!_ \-- keep up like this – Christ, your mouth!” _Rog, when the fuck did you learn to suck cock like this?_

And then Roger did something fancy with his tongue, and John's eyes rolled back in his head, the world fading into whiteness as his sudden orgasm washed over him. As he came gradually down from it, he was vaguely aware of Roger letting John's softened cock slide from his mouth, and planting a gentle kiss to his hip before crawling back up to stretch alongside him, licking his lips.

“You good?” Roger whispered.

“Jesus,” John breathed. “You look like the cat that ate the cream.”

Roger snorted. “S'pose that's one way to put it.”

“Where did you learn that trick with your tongue?”

Roger huffed. “Seemed like a good idea, is all.” He threw an arm across John's chest, nestling himself into the crook of John's shoulder like he belonged there.

_Well_ , John thought, _maybe he does belong there_. But as they lay there for long quiet minutes, John began to feel the guilt creeping in. “You, um,” he started to say. “Rog.”

“Mm?”

“You, ah, need a hand with anything?”

Roger snorted again. “Did you honestly not notice where my other hand was all that time?”

John _hadn't_ noticed, and he was very glad that the room's darkness hid his blush. “You should take some painkillers,” he said softly. “And more water.”

“I did,” Roger yawned. “Before I started.” He frowned suddenly and clumsily pushed himself up and over John and finally off the bed, grimacing slightly as he stood up.

“You ok?

Roger motioned at the damp front of his underpants. “Yeah. Sticky. Be right back.”

“Drink more water,” John advised, and Roger mumbled something in agreement. He was only staggering a little, John noticed, as Roger slipped out of the bedroom, leaving the door ajar as he went to clean himself up. He stretched, then slid himself closer to the wall so that Roger wouldn't have to climb back over him when he came back. Sighing in contentment, John closed his eyes as he waited, not quite slipping into a sort of doze. 

When Roger lifted up the edge of the covers and slipped in next to him, John rolled onto his side to face him. “What brought all that on?” he asked, placing a chaste kiss on Roger's forehead. “Not that I minded.”

“Um --”

“Because we never --”

“I wanted to,” Roger burst out. “I woke up to piss. Got some paracetamol. Drank some water. And then when I came back, you --” He stopped, chewing slightly on his bottom lip.

John poked him in the chest with one finger. “I what?” he prodded.

Roger leaned back on the pillow, gazing thoughtfully at John. “You were lying here so fast asleep, looking like... I don't know. Like some kind of debauched angel. And I just... I just wanted to.” He paused again. A slight tremor edged his voice as he added, “Didn't _you_ want me to?”

“God, yes,” John groaned, pulling the drummer close. “Only we'd never, y'know. Before. And I'd have liked to have been awake from the start.”

Roger snorted. “You were so dead to the world. I thought maybe I could make you come in your sleep.”

John burst out laughing. “I suppose I should apologise for waking up and ruining your plans to make me think I'd only had a wet dream!”

“ _Don't you misfire_ ,” Roger sang softly. “ _And fill me up..._ ”

John slapped Roger's shoulder playfully, as they both broke into giggles. “You absolute _git!_ ”

_This is a bit of alright_ , John thought sleepily, as they both quieted. _I could get used to this._

Roger snuggled into the crook of John's shoulder, one hand splayed across his chest. And as John dozed off, he was blissfully unaware that Roger lay awake for some time, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip, a certain kiss preying heavily on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this would be a lovely way to end it, but... this is honestly the calm before the storm. There is at least one more chapter. Possibly two, depending on what happens in the next one.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I kissed her.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _John closed his eyes, wondering if Roger could hear the painful thump of his heart. That bloody lump in his throat was back. Good and just punishment, he supposed, for opening his heart. But what, honestly, had he thought? That Roger would want an actual relationship with him?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So very many thanks to 1f_this_be_madness who's been looking this over from chapter 3 onwards. You've got my devotion, darling! <3

When John finally awoke again, he was met with silence. Sunlight was streaming in past the thin curtains, dappling the room with a softly fluttering light. He sat up gingerly, listening for any sound, any hint of his bandmates. Nothing.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, one hand scratching idly at his chest, casting one wary eye around the room. 

No Roger.

Pulling yesterday's jeans up over his slim hips, John padded across the wooden floor and peeked cautiously around the edge of the door, only to be greeted by more silence. His brow furrowed with mild confusion as he walked down the short hallway to the main living area.

Roger was curled up in a corner of the couch, pale and wan, sipping tea out of John's favourite chipped mug. A plate of half-eaten toast sat on the floor next to him. Something warm turned over in John at the sight, and he just wanted to nestle into Roger's arms.

“Bri's gone to get bread and a few sundries,” Roger offered before John could ask.

“How are you feeling?” John asked.

Roger's lips quirked up in an attempt at a smile. “Like yesterday's shite,” he groaned. “I know I look it too.”

“Yeah,” John grinned, “you kind of do. Listen, we have to --”

“Talk, I know,” Roger groaned, rubbing one hand across his forehead. 

Although Roger looked horribly miserable, John grinned again; he couldn't help it. At least one thing hadn't changed – they'd been like this almost from the moment they'd met, sharing the same thoughts, finishing each other's sentences. 

“Rog --”

“No,” Roger said hastily. “Please. Me first, please.”

Two pleases in a matter of seconds? John curled into the opposite end of the couch, watching for a long minute while Roger fiddled with the edge of his t-shirt – thankfully a cleaner shirt than last night's sick-stained one, John noted – and waited for Roger to collect his thoughts. 

“I'm sorry,” Roger said softly. “That I made you upset. Yesterday. At the studio.”

“You didn't like what I said, clearly,” John said dryly. He wasn't liable to soon forget the hurt and worry he'd seen in Roger's eyes when John had blurted out that he loved him. If a few stolen kisses – and apparently the occasional blowjob – were all he was going to get, so be it. John had never really expected anything else, but a cold feeling began to settle in the pit of his stomach. “No need to apologise. I get it; I was out of line.”

“No!” Roger burst out. “I didn't hear you – in the studio, _I didn't hear you!_ How could I, with your mouth shoved up against the side of my head, talking into my bloody _hair_ \--” He paused, sniffling. _Please_ , he thought, _please god don't let me tear up now, not in front of John, not now_ \--

“I-- I met a bird,” he blurted out, trying to ignore John's sudden sharp intake of breath. “Last night. At the bar. She's... well, pretty enough. You know. Nice tits. Good body. Absolutely _gorgeous_ eyes.”

John unfolded himself from this corner of the couch. “I really don't need to hear this. Please, don't explain. I don't want to know.”

“I kissed her.”

John closed his eyes as he stood motionless, wondering if Roger could hear the painful thump of his heart. That bloody lump in his throat was back. Good and just punishment, he supposed, for opening his heart. But what, honestly, had he thought? That Roger would want an actual relationship with him? “Good for you,” he finally choked out.

Roger shook his head. “No – I mean, yes, she was a great kisser, but --”

“Rog,” John said hoarsely, “do you _ever_ know when to shut up?”

“She wasn't _you_ ,” Roger said miserably.

“Probably had better tits, yeah?” John spat out, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. _You knew it would come to this_ , nagged a small, jeering voice in his head. _Never good enough_.

Roger snorted. “Well, that goes without saying, but... when I was kissing her... I _wanted_ it to be you. That I was kissing.”

John blinked, trying vainly to process those words, but they refused to have any meaning to him. 

“I'm so sorry,” Roger said. “I love you. I know that's a stupid way of showing it, but... I only realised it then.”

“Maybe you should have realised it _before_ you kissed her,” John said coldly. He couldn't think. “If you love someone, you don't just go picking up other people.”

“I'm sorry,” Roger repeated. “I just--”

“What?” John scoffed. “You just what? Thought you'd blow me last night as some weird, fucked-up apology for tongue-fucking someone else?”

“It wasn't like that!” Roger gasped like he'd been slapped. “Deacy, fucking let me explain!”

John shook his head. “Don't explain,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to steady his voice. His stomach was starting to hurt from keeping himself together. It was if he was suddenly full of venom and he had to spit it out. “I get it. You wanted the best of both worlds.”

“No, just listen --”

“No, _you_ listen!” John shouted, shoving his feet into the closest pair of his shoes that he could find. The neighbours were all probably listening in, he thought. God knew the walls in this place were thin enough for it, and the boys had certainly heard their fair share from the other flats.”Maybe you can't get this through your thick head, but I'm not one of your cheap slags! I never was! But,” he continued, one hand on the door handle, “if that's truly how little you think of me, of this, of whatever we had between us --”

“John,” Roger begged. “It --”

“-- _then I don't want you._ ”

“... was a mistake,” Roger finished contritely, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

John just glared at him. “Damn fucking right it was.” And with that he wrenched the door open, nearly knocking over Brian who was just coming in with a paper bag full of groceries as John stormed out.

Brian stared after him for a wordless moment, then quietly closed the door, balancing the groceries on one hip while he kicked off his shoes. He padded into the kitchen, and set the bag on the counter. Quietly he put the few things he'd bought away – bread, tea, chocolate biscuits, tomatoes – and checked the level of water in the kettle before setting it on the stove. As he waited for it to boil, he set out his favourite mug with a tea bag in it, and carefully opened the biscuits, placing several on a small plate for he and Roger to share. 

When Brian carried the tea and biscuits into the living room several minutes later, Roger was still in the same corner of the couch, staring off into space. He'd already set his own half-full mug on the floor beside the forgotten toast. 

Brian set the tea things down before settling himself next to Roger. “You want to tell me what I just walked into?” he asked softly.

Roger just shook his head.

Brian shrugged. “It's not exactly a secret about you two, y'know,” he said, offering the plate of biscuits to Roger, “if that's what you're wondering. We don't care, me and Freddie. We love you both.”

“ _John_ doesn't love me,” Roger said, taking a biscuit. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment, then immediately burst into hiccoughing sobs. “I fuck up _everything_.”

“Nah, you don't, you _don't_ ,” Brian soothed, pulling Roger into as much of a hug as he could get, which wasn't the easiest thing to do when the drummer was trying to make himself into as small a ball as he could. He rubbed small circles over Roger's back while Roger cried into Brian's shirt. “You don't fuck everything up, mate. He's just angry.”

“Didn't even realise how good I had it,” Roger sniffled after several minutes when he was able to calm himself down.

“John's just... well. Being John, I suppose,” Brian said. “What did you do to set him off like that?”

Roger sniffled again. “I might have... kissed someone else. Last night. And then when I tried to tell him that was how I knew I really only wanted _him_... It came out all wrong.”

Brian sighed, shaking his head. “Oh, Rog... Let him cool off. You know how he gets.”

“Yeah,” Roger agreed, shifting himself to finally hug Brian back. He licked thoughtfully at the edge of the biscuit he still clutched in one hand. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he turned to face Brian. “Wait, how did you know?”

“Anyone with eyes could've seen how absolutely gone on each other you two are,” Brian chuckled. “Freddie noticed first, actually. Sharp eyes, him.”

Roger licked more chocolate off his biscuit. 

“Are you going to eat that poor biscuit,” Brian asked, noting how Roger had somehow already managed to get chocolate on the tip of his nose, “or just worry it to death?”

Grinning, Roger took a large bite of his biscuit. “I'm gonna go after him,” he said confidently, after swallowing. “Right now. That's what I'm gonna do. And I bet I know where he's gone.”

Then suddenly he turned pale, eyes widening as he suddenly shoved himself off Brian's lap and made a grab for a nearby wastebasket just in time for tea, toast, and biscuit to come back up.

Brian sighed, pulling Roger's hair out of the way while he heaved up what little breakfast he'd eaten. “Maybe not _right_ this second, though, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't apologise enough for this. I really do intend to wrap everything up in the next chapter -- I _promise_ there's a happy ending! In the meantime... please don't kill me!


End file.
